Exhaustion
by gryffindortrekkie13
Summary: A story of Clint's recovery after a fight. PTSD and whump.


Exhaustion.

Pain.

Tired.

 _Sleep._

There were only a few thoughts crossing Clint's mind as he stumbled into the Avengers tower.

Exhaustion.

Pain.

Tired.

His body hurt, and ached and shook.

For some reason, he wasn't sure if it had been his crash-landing on the top of that car or that intimate connection his head had made with that cement wall, he couldn't see straight.

His feet throbbed and a shivering, painful pulse seem to beat inside him from head to toe.

His vision kept blurring on the edges, making the scenes around him blur in and out of focus, leaving Clint to feel shakily disoriented and lost.

He fought to keep his eyes open as his body felt tired and sluggish, as if his limbs were too heavy for his body.

Maybe it was the copious amount of blood that covered him, or the effects of his actions from earlier but he felt very heavy and leaden.

It was almost like the world was dragging him down.

He was covered in blood.

It was in his hair, dripping down his chin, weighing down his suit and leaking onto the floor by his boots.

He could taste it in his mouth and he had to shake his head to clear the drops of blood from obscuring his vision completely.

Most of it wasn't his own blood.

It belonged to the victims and to the villains of the fight that had taken place just a little ago.

It was funny, that fight seemed like so long ago to Clint.

He couldn't stop seeing them. Seeing the faces of the innocent. The faces of the bystanders and people caught in the crossfire, some of which he had killed.

It wasn't like it was new to him. For someone with Clint's set of skills and particular profession, things like that were always going to happen.

This time was worse though. This time had hit him harder than the others.

Just the sheer amount...they had tried their best to take care of the situation as efficiently and safely as they could.

So many people, so many people that Clint had indirectly and directly caused to be hurt or killed.

This weighed him down, weighed him down so hard that it was difficult to walk without collapsing on the floor.

His suit felt stiff with dried blood but he found that he didn't really care.

The world swum in and out of focus and unrelenting waves of nausea and anguish surged through him.

Clint was only human after all. The rest of the Avengers seemed to forget that.

There was only so much he could handle.

The face of a little girl, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful, her peaceful appearance contrasting darkly to the scattered blood across her face and the explosion of red on what remained of her chest.

That peaceful expression...she hadn't deserved to die.

Clint couldn't even think anymore.

His head and heart pounded in sync and all he could concentrate on now was trying to get away, to his room, where he could be with himself.

He let his feet guide him to the familiar elevator, then to the familiar hallway.

While standing wearily in the elevator he found himself transfixed by the puddle of blood that surrounded the soles of his boots.

Gunfire, rocketing explosions, screams and shouting.

The sounds of earlier seemed to follow him. He was so used to the overwhelming chatter of bullets by now that it hardly bothered him, the bullets sounded like driving rain on window glass or a car roof.

He just wanted to curl up and clutch his head in his hands, trying to force the events of the past hours out of his mind.

His knuckles ached and he curled them despite the pain and felt the torn skin stretch.

The hallway seemed to last forever.

He wasn't sure how his feet kept moving and with every step fresh faces of the newly deceased came to mind.

Eventually it wasn't even the newly deceased. Faces, old faces of past victims and old targets seemed to surface from the depths of his mind.

Suddenly he wasn't sure if he could make it to his room.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe and with every movement of his chest, aching and driving pain seemed to escalate.

Mildly he wondered how he could feel so empty and so heavy at the same time.

His head felt heavy, his heart felt heavy and everything felt so heavy.

Exhaustion.

Pain.

Tired.

He made it to the shower before he collapsed completely.

His legs gave out and his knees collided painfully with the tiled floor.

A fire seemed to spread from his chest upwards. It wasn't pain...it was anguish.

The destruction he had caused, the wreckage and bodies that were created by his hand and his bow.

His trembling hand reached up and twisted the knob fiercely and icy cold water came shooting out.

He was soaked immediately, the cold water rushing down his back and weighing his clothes down even more.

It almost seemed to soothe his wounds, all of the open cuts and purple bruises. It ran over all of deep scrapes and gashes made by his skidding journey on rocky asphalt.

He allowed himself to collapse backwards against the wall.

He felt so tired. So damn tired. He could fall asleep here and now and never wake up again, if he had the choice.

His eyes closed of their own accord and he let the water run over him, dripping down over his blood caked forehead, dry and cracked lips and down, down, into the bruised and injured mess that was his chest.

Dimly he felt a throbbing pain from where the scrapes that still had asphalt imbedded in them on his back pressed against the tiled wall.

The water rushed over him, washing the blood from his uniform and from his body.

A sob escaped his mouth.

Because of the water already running down his face he couldn't distinguish whether he was crying or not...he couldn't even remember the last time he had actually cried.

Light red water pooled on the floor and swept to the drain and he watched it in desperate fascination.

The weariness was suddenly harder to shake.

His eyes started closing, the rhythmic pounding of the water against his head was suddenly very soothing.

That little girl.

His heart ached for them. It was in moments like these that he wished that he had nothing to do with the Avengers, or with SHIELD.

They hadn't done anything wrong. They were just living their lives normally until Clint had to come and screw things up.

People had died.

It was overwhelming, the feeling of utter responsibility and guilt and regret all at once.

The bathroom suddenly felt very stifling and claustrophobic and Clint put his head between his knees and covered it with his arms.

His hands trembled uncontrollably.

He felt cold and tired.

He breathed in and out. In and out. In and out. Until it was the only thing he could bring himself to do.

In and out. It echoed throughout his mind, the only thing keeping him there, slouched in that shower, just barely hanging on.

Exhaustion.

Pain.

Tired.

Hurt.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there. The water was still slightly tinged with red and it swirled in between his boots.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there when a hand shook him out of his stupor.

He hissed in pain as the movement brought back fierce waves of the achiness and fiery agony.

He glanced upwards, his vision blurred, not seeing anything except blurry figures.

Dimly he heard shouting...but the words didn't translate.

Water ran down his face, a face long since numb, before the stream was suddenly shut off by an unknown source.

In and out. In and out.

He stared at the opposite wall as the familiar panic threatened to overtake him.

A hand gripped his chin and forced him to look to the left. Another hand shook his shoulder and he winced as stinging pain flooded down from that shoulder.

He opened his mouth to speak but his voice seemed jammed and empty.

He just wanted to sleep.

His head felt heavy on his shoulders and he wished he could just slip away into darkness.

His eyes started to close…

"Clint!"

A voice managed to break through. It sounded like Steve but Clint couldn't be sure. His mind was playing tricks on him.

His vision swam in and out. The shockingly familiar face of his brother Barney suddenly appearing.

The face was taunting and Clint felt himself shrink away.

Barney wasn't here, he couldn't be here.

Terror suddenly flooded him and he shut his eyes tightly.

When he opened them again Barney was gone and the slightly blurry faces of Steve, Bruce and Tony came into focus.

Further outside the bathroom he could see the tense figure of Natasha and of Bucky, the two standing side by side. Sam and Thor were there, watching, concern tight on their features.

Clint wasn't sure why all of them were here.

He was fine, really. He just wanted to take a shower and to go to sleep.

Bruce was saying something to him and Clint tried to focus on the scientist's face.

His head pounded.

He tried to say something but the words were stuck and all that came out was a croaky groan, or a whimper.

Any other time Clint would curse himself for being so pathetic and wimpy but for now all that he couldn't think about was his bed.

He missed the water. He missed the thunder it made on his skull and he missed the soothing feeling it had brought.

Unexpectedly, suddenly, he was standing, supported by Steve and Tony they had yanked him to his feet.

They felt clumsy under him as he tried to walk normally, his normally steady legs feeling like lead.

The world spun and his stomach lurched.

He thought was going to pass out. He almost wished he was going to pass out.

Agony ripped down his body and his head dropped forwards weakly.

He was a deadweight in Steve and Tony's arms.

His eyes closed as he felt them moving him. His boots trailed on the wet tile.

He felt so heavy.

A few torturous moments longer they dropped him on the bed.

An instant later he was gone.

Tired.

Sleep.

Pain.

When Clint finally woke up he was in a world of pain.

Somehow it seemed worse than before.

His head felt as if someone was nailing metal spikes into different areas of his skull.

Half of his face felt swollen and a large cut seemed to be seeping blood.

His shoulders ached and his knuckles burned with fire.

His breathing felt hindered and his legs felt achy and tired.

His back was the worst. He could feel the scabs already starting to form, starting at the back of his shoulder blade extending all the way down, almost to his hip.

He supposed that was the price to pay for action movie style flips and rolls from fast moving cars on asphalt.

Nausea rolled in his stomach and his vision swayed from side to side.

He felt like crap.

Scanning the room, his room he confirmed, he spotted the slouched position of Bruce in a chair by his bed. He was reading something and it hurt Clint too much to think about it.

It hurt to much to think at all.

He was used to this routine. He braced himself and sat up, almost immediately passing out and the agony that spread instantaneously throughout his body.

He gasped for air and bent over.

Bruce jerked and stood up, frowning.

"Hey Clint, take it easy."

Clint forced his body to stop trembling and swung his legs over to the side of the bed. He could feel his hands shaking.

Jesus, everything hurt. But he had to get out, he had to get moving. Get the blood flowing, Clint knew his body and had conditioned it fiercely, so right now he knew he had to get up.

He shook his head, drowning out the sound of Bruce's voice the dull pounding inside his head easily taking over.

He stood up and the world spun once again.

Vision blurry and stomach in his throat his entire body swayed and he had to flail his arms about wildly, looking for something to steady himself on.

He gasped desperately for air and stumbled on his feet.

Bruce's hands were suddenly there, steadying on his shoulders and bracing him gently.

Clint could almost smile, Bruce was a gentle soul with a gentle touch, just like the doctor he was. He supposed that it was Bruce who had patched him up as best he could.

He tried to sharpen his gaze and got a glimpse of Bruce's face, concerned and caring.

He had a sudden flashback to the face of his father and cringed away.

He stumbled back and when his ankles met the bed he dropped down and put his head in his hands.

His thoughts were going crazy again, he had to start getting himself under control.

"Clint...you're okay...you're safe…"

"Clint...deep breaths alright…"

Steve had arrived, along with Tony and Sam.

Somebody crouched in front of him and Clint glanced up to see Sam watching him with concern and empathy.

Sam, as a person who dealt with PTSD a lot would have experience in how to deal with people like Clint.

A strong hand, Sam's hand rested on his shoulder, comforting and reassuring.  
Clint concentrated on Sam's voice.

"Clint...you're okay...you're alright...no one is going to hurt you...you're safe. You're not out there anymore, you're in Avengers tower with me, Bruce, Steve and Tony. Clint, let us help you."

Clint felt the truth in the words and allowed himself to relax fractionally.

He was sure he was going to throw up.

He struggled to pull himself together before nodding shakily, the movement causing daggers to erupt behind his forehead.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the jarring in his rib cage, and looked upwards.

He wanted to say something and he searched for his voice, somewhere along where he had left it he had showered yesterday.

"I'm okay." He managed to croak out eventually.

He felt the tiredness start to creep up on him again and his eyelids felt heavy.

His brain was sluggish and he tried to pay attention as Bruce started talking.

"M' just really tired" mumbled Clint

He ran a trembling hand through hair before massaging his knuckles with his other palm, a familiar habit.

He couldn't stop the trembling and he clenched his jaw tightly.

His mouth still tasted like blood, the bitter metallic flavor causing his nausea to rise again.

Lurching suddenly forwards he threw up violently on the floor next to Sam, the harsh revolting of his stomach jarring his ribs so painfully that he felt the world slide out of the focus.

His body, already moving forwards, collapsed painfully on the floor.

Clint felt himself yell out in pain before darkness closed over him once again.


End file.
